The Promise
by Grac3
Summary: On the night of the Battle of the Seven Harrys, Fred promises George that he will never leave him again. One year later, George feels betrayed.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

The moonlight crept along the floor from the window in the front room. As for everything that had happened, no one had bothered to close the curtains when they had gone to bed or left for their own houses. The room was bathed in so much silver that it was nearly as light as daytime. Yet the candles had all been extinguished and there were shadows in every nook and cranny.

"Why are you still here?" George asked, turning his head slightly to his twin.

"What do you mean?" Fred replied in a monotone. He felt emotionally drained, sleep tugging at the corners of his eyes. He was so tired…

"Go to bed," George told him. "I can sleep down here. It's okay."

For a moment, Fred considered it. The battle had taken so much out of him, and his knees were aching from kneeling next to the sofa upon which his twin lay with a hole in the side of his head. It was only a few flights of stairs, and his bed was so comfortable…

"No," he croaked. His voice was still a little sore from yelling, screaming, crying. He almost felt as though he was not really there at all, as though he had become detached from the world and everything in it. Surely Mad-Eye couldn't be dead?

"You need sleep. We both do."

Fred looked down at George. Mrs Weasley had done a good job of bandaging his head, though the cloth was staining with the blood that was seeping out of the hole where his ear used to be. They couldn't stop the bleeding, not when it had been caused by magic – a curse, nonetheless; they just had to wait for it to stop.

In a very real way, he couldn't help but feel responsible for what had happened. They had always looked out for each other; they had always been there for each other. Yet tonight he had left him on his own, and this had happened.

He didn't know how long he had been kneeling there, though George's eyes slipped closed and he seemed to be falling asleep. Fred reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand, flicking it at one of the cushions on the other sofa. It jumped lazily off of the furniture and landed a few feet away from its original position.

Sighing, Fred got to his feet and walked over to the cushion to pick it up himself. His legs protested at the sudden movement after having been idle for so long, but he ignored it and returned to his twin's side, cushion in hand.

"What are you doing?" George mumbled as Fred placed the cushion on the floor next to his head.

"I'll never leave you again," he told him determinedly. "I promise."

* * *

_One year later_

The sun beat down on the grass, shining off of the dew that formed in the breezy, fresh early morning air. It infuriated him. What right did it have to be sunny if he wasn't here to see it? What right did it have to be a nice day when there was so much grief in the world?

George stood in front of the tombstone: a granite which itself glinted in the sunlight. He ran a hand through his hair; it was messy and tangled, and longer than usual – nearly reaching length it had been in his sixth year. His eyes felt sore and the last time he had seen himself in front of a mirror – something he desperately tried to avoid doing of late – they had been surrounded by ugly, red, dry patches of skin.

He slowly lowered himself to his knees, and the shadows on the tombstone changed, making the words on it more visible.

"Hey," he gasped. He wasn't sure what to say. He hadn't been to the tombstone since the funeral two months previously; it had been Ron who had suggested that he go. A part of him felt that the others only wanted him out of their sight for a few hours, to rid themselves of such a negative presence.

"Um…" his voice was cracking, and he felt the tears begin to well up again. "So… I hope you're doing okay up there. With everyone." He opened his mouth to reel off a list of all the others who had been lost in the war, but found his voice breaking and falling silent. Having to deal with Fred's death was hard enough, without having to think about Remus, or Tonks, or all the others who had never made it out of the castle that fateful day.

A tear began to fall down his cheek. "I really miss you, mate." He reached up and rubbed the tear away. He was so sick of crying. So sick of feeling miserable. He just wanted to snap himself out of it, but every time he tried he only seemed to make things worse. "R-Ron's been helping with the joke shop. He's alright, but not as good as you. Felicity thinks we can train him up a bit better, but you know Ikkle Ronnikins, he's hopeless." He let out a humourless chuckle.

"I found out who the Marauders are as well," he told the grey headstone. "Turns out they're all up there with you now. Can't believe Harry knew for four years that Prongs was his dad and he never thought to mention it. Or that Sirius was Padfoot, and Remus was Moony. I'm sure you know all that by now, though."

He lapsed into silence again. It seemed hollow to be telling all this to an inanimate object, just because it bore his brother's name. In his pause, he found himself beginning to feel angry.

"Why aren't you here?" he asked, his voice less teary and cracked now, but solid and rising in volume. "Why? Why did we get separated in the castle? How did that even happen?" With every word, his voice was getting louder.

His memory brought him back to that day when he had lost his ear. Fred had laid down beside him and told him he'd never leave him.

"You said you'd always be there!" he cried. "YOU PROMISED!"

A pigeon flew out of a nearby tree and off into the distance. The silence that followed seemed to ring in George's ears. His fingers were curled around blades of grass on the ground, nearly ripping them from the roots. He was breathing heavily.

"Yes. I did."

George whipped around to the direction the voice had come from, and let out a gasp of surprise.

Fred was standing there, his hands in his pockets.

Was he a ghost? No: he looked too solid, he was not silver like the ghosts of Hogwarts and his feet were touching the ground. It was every possibility that he was hallucinating, or dreaming, or-

"I'm sorry," Fred said.

George pushed himself to his feet, backing away a few steps. "W-what are you?" he breathed. He nearly reached for his wand.

"It's really me," Fred explained. George's head was spinning. "I'm not a ghost, I'm not… I don't really know, it's hard to explain. But, please, you have to believe me."

George wasn't sure that he did. How was this possible?

"H-how are you here?"

Fred smiled sadly. "Cause I'm still alive. In a sense." He walked closer. This time, George did not back away. "The spirit lives on, George. Up there-" He pointed to the heavens, "in here." He held out his palm and placed it over George's heart, though he did not touch him.

George took a deep breath. He had one more question to ask.

"_Why_ are you here?"

Fred lowered his hand to his side. "I've been watching you the last couple of months. I haven't been allowed to intervene in natural grief, you have to go through that. But what you just said… You're right, I did promise. And I just wanted to let you know that, even if it feels like I broke that promise, I didn't."

"But…" George gulped; he could feel more tears welling up, "you died."

Fred nodded. "But I never left you." He looked down at George's feet and chuckled slightly. "Your shoelace is untied."

George followed his gaze down and saw that it was. He instinctively bent down to tie it up again, but was stopped.

"No." Fred told him. He looked up, and saw his twin shaking his head at him. He slowly rose to his feet again. "Every single time you have tried to walk when your shoelaces have come untied since the battle, you've fallen over after a few steps." George nodded in acknowledgement of this fact. "That never used to happen before. Once you made it all the way up the stairs to the top of the Astronomy Tower with your shoelaces untied and you didn't trip over once."

"That's because you were with me," George insisted. "I'm so accident prone without you."

Fred moved out of the way. "Walk over to that tree," he told him, pointing at the tree that the pigeon had flown out of.

George's brow furrowed, but he did has he was told, fully expecting to get two steps and find himself eating grass.

Yet he didn't. He was getting closer to the tree, still upright, still upright, still upright…

He reached the tree and laughed for the first time since the battle. He turned to face Fred…

But he was gone.

George felt the smile slide off of his face, yet the intense grief that he had been feeling for the past two months did not return. He felt brighter, almost positive.

Bending down to tie his shoelace, he realized that maybe Fred hadn't broken his promise after all…


End file.
